


The Means To An End. The Start Of A New Beginning (A Nearer End)

by catherineisa



Category: The Blacklist (US TV)
Genre: 3/20/20 complete
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-03-20
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:27:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23196295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catherineisa/pseuds/catherineisa
Summary: Raymond “Red” Reddington has great restraint. He hasn’t killed the man yet at least.
Relationships: Raymond Reddington & Donald Ressler, Raymond Reddington/Donald Ressler
Comments: 14
Kudos: 46





	1. The Beginning Of The End (His Not Mine)

Raymond “Red” Reddington has great restraint. He hasn’t killed the man yet at least.

**_That must count for something._ **

The man in question is one Special Agent Donald Ressler. He’s on the run for year twenty-five and Agent Donald Ressler is a pain in his ass. First the man tries to shoot him, while he’s eating dinner no less. Now he’s up for some kind of promotion and he turns it down just to keep on chasing Raymond Reddington.

**A shame really, He's brought this on himself.**

He’s got the man tied to a chair now, but he’s fighting the urge to just shoot him and be done with it. Dembe is the voice of reason, per usual and has reasoned with him about killing the man. As much as he hates to admit it. Dembe is right, he can’t just kill the man on the Task-Force because predictably it will light a fire under the FBI’s ass.

What he ends up doing though lights a fire under Donald Ressler’s. He leaves him there, tied to the chair, taped over the mouth, and calls in an anonymous tip to the FBI.

It’s cruel, he knows but seeing the man humiliated makes up for the nights without sleep clutching a gun under his pillow. He almost wishes that Ressler had found him one of those nights, so he’d have a clear reason to put a bullet in the man’s brain.

“Hello, th-there’s a man, he’s beat up. Real bad, he’s tied up. I think he might have a concussion. Please come quick he’s bleeding everywhere.”

He relays the address of the warehouse before snapping the phone in half and throwing on the ground and, for good measure, Stomping it to pieces.

He takes his gun and hits Ressler square in the face with it, hard enough to knock him out cold. He laughs inwardly. He’s far enough away before the sirens even start. The problem might take care of itself. Knowing the agent though, he’s only challenged him further. Maybe that’ll be interesting, up to then he’d been bored by Agent Ressler. He was all rules and no panache, no flair. It really takes his all to repress the disgust.

It only takes about a week of burning oil for Ressler to find him again, although he can admit that he wasn’t trying his hardest to hide, a brokered deal here a good old weapons trade there, no change in routine, well not much.

He finds himself in Brussels, enjoying a wonderful Croque Madame when a shot fires off from above, missing him by not even an inch. He knows it’s a warning shot, but it gives him time to duck and shoot back. It’s a mistake.

His weapon pops off three times before he can even think about shooting back. Three more and Reddington gets off just one, he’s half blind but he can see the shadow on the roof across and it’s all he needs. He hears a shout and knows he’s got him, possibly a wing. Before he can fully get away the man is up again and shooting. So, he sits behind a table and counts. Four more cracks. He looks at a woman on the floor, soft features marred by blood. He checks her pulse, but he already knows. She’s dead.

**“You know Donald, I’ve never harmed an innocent. I haven’t killed a man or woman that didn’t deserve it. Certainly no children.”**

He reflects on the recording and a bitter taste fills his mouth. He knows he’s created a monster. He closes the woman’s eyes. He pulls out her wallet, Celine Forster. Four pops. It’s over. He takes the license. There’s no reason to duck anymore so he stands up. He glances briefly towards the rooftop; the man is gone. He mills around the restaurant; most have fled but the ones that haven’t are dead.

If he was a religious man, he would’ve said a prayer. He settles for the identification cards. A solemn breath as he goes table to table. Six people, dead. He knows he should feel guilty since they’re only dead because he was there, but he finds only sorrow. Sorrow for them and for the man that killed them.

He shoves the cards unceremoniously into his pocket and exits through the back kitchen before the sirens even start. He’ll make sure the agent knows what he’s done.

On the rooftop across he can see the vantage point, and the blood. The agent has left behind his gun, a nice piece of machinery that he recognizes is not part of the FBI’s artillery. The same model he used to kill Meera Malik. No doubt intentional. Her death was unintentional, but necessary in the end.

He takes the gun carefully, making sure not to touch it with his bare hands or wipe off any of the blood. He wraps it carefully in a tarp lying in a corner, making his way down. When he gets to one of the closer safe-houses, he makes sure to put it carefully in an evidence bag and a nice box.

The news has proclaimed it was him, Raymond Reddington who started the shootout. He’d sooner prove them wrong than have lunch.

> “It appears that the FBI has concluded that the shootout was started by Raymond Reddington, in what they’re calling ‘A deal gone south’. More to come at eight.”

He scoffs at that. He may be a criminal, but he won’t stand for them to say he slaughtered six innocent people. He tapes the identification cards to outside of the wooden box and shuts it neatly before writing Director Harold Cooper on the lid in bold.

Unfortunately, it’s too dangerous for him to deliver it himself so he has to have Baz do it.

**A crying shame**

Several hours later, a source relates to him the search of the box and assures him that it’s been delivered. He pours himself a drink before sitting in a close chair. All there is to do now is wait.

Several hours later he gets word that the FBI is taking evidence from the gun and have made it a priority. Blood test and particulates are sent off to an inhouse lab.

Several more and the news has a different tune.

> We have an update on the shootout that happened in an upscale restaurant downtown earlier today. It is now believed that an unsanctioned operation helmed by one Donald Ressler is the cause of the six reported deaths. One source says that the gun used by Agent Ressler was not an FBI armament and was stolen from an evidence locker earlier in the week. The unmarked weapon was used in the attempt to assassinate the criminal Raymond Reddington, who was not among the dead. More to come as we learn it. 

Raymond Reddington sits back with a smile; Everything is going to plan.


	2. Mutually Agreeable (Possibly.)

The next day he’s informed that Agent Ressler has been called to a meeting with Director Cooper and several other higher ups. No doubt for reprimand or firing, possible arrest. So he does what any sensible criminal on the run for nearly thirty years does to meet someone who’s spent basically his whole career trying to kill him.

He puts on his best hat and goes out to the car. He smiles balefully before grabbing a tire iron out of the trunk. He tilts his head up toward the sky and take a long breath in. Before he can think about it too much and regret the decision, he’s swinging the tire iron aimlessly at the car. By the time he’s done, the frame of the Lincoln Continental town car has buckled under the blows. He runs his ungloved hand over the jagged metal before smiling, with satisfaction this time.

> **We’ll soon find out where we all stand.**

He’s already been given the location of the agent. A precinct downtown, no doubt they’d already processed him. High profile cases are the bane of any crooked official, and luckily; He knew many. They would want to sweep this under the rug as quickly as they could, lest their corruption be uncovered.

He all but glides up to the desk when he arrives at the precinct.

“Excuse me officer. I’d like to report a crime.” He tries so hard to feign anger but he’s nearly on cloud nine.

“Yes. What would that be?” His bored eyes rake his figure as a first pass judgement.

“Some hooligan just smashed the shit out of my car.” His voice raises a pitch nearly cracks. He resists the urge to grin smugly.

“What’s your name sir? What kind of car?” The man has pulled out a vandalism report paper to his left and a cheap ballpoint.

He leans on the counter, swiping the man’s keycard. “Kenneth Rathers. It was a Lincoln Continental, fairly new too.” The officer winces, he must know it’s a pretty penny. He frowns and swipes his fist through the air.

“What did the suspect look like? Did you drive it here?”

He describes the most ridiculous person he can imagine. Adding for great measure. “Must have been one of those, what do you call them? Hipsters.” He snaps his fingers loudly and the man flinches.

“Alright if you could wait here for a moment while I put this in.” The man looks tired beyond his years and Reddington almost feels bad for him for what’s about to happen. Almost.

“Oh, could you tell me where the bathroom is perhaps?” He puts his hat back on his head. The officer nods and gestures down the hall with the paper. “On the left.” He nods his head gratefully. “Thank you.”

He makes sure the officer is well down the hall in the opposite direction before entering the bathroom. He makes sure the bathroom is empty before looking quickly looking into the trashcan. Luckily the trashcan is full of paper towels and abandoned receipts. He pulls out a flask, pours it quickly in the flimsy plastic bin before lighting a single cigarette and throwing it in. It flares quickly and his suit nearly catches too. He quickly makes his way out and pulls the brim of the hat down. He pulls the man’s card out of his pocket.

**I don’t even know your name, but I have much to thank you for. Not being attentive enough, for starters.**

By now an alarm is blaring and officers are pushing past him. Not even a second glance his way. He makes his way out the back and gets in the car.

The prisoners are transferred into a temporary holding cell in the back of an armored truck. Which Dembe and Baz are already intercepting. Almost too easy.

The transfer truck is now being driven by Baz, and both vehicles slow on the side of the road. The road itself is mostly clear but to be sure, they set up a perimeter close by. Baz feigns like he’s changing the tire, then decides he might as well do it for real.

Reddington pulls himself up onto the back of the truck by a nearby metal handle, unlocking the door with one of the keys supplied by Dembe. He swings the door open to find only one man in the caravan. The only one he needs. Ex-special agent Donald Ressler is sitting in the middle of the metal bench with his head in his hands. His wrists are chained together, and his ankles are chained closely to the floor.

Reddington shuts the door behind him, which causes the man to lift his head a little, glancing at the man as he sits across. He bares his teeth and lunges quickly at him before the chains pull taught and yank him back. He very nearly growls.

Reddington laughs emphatically and it seems to bounce off the metal walls. This just serves to make the blonde man angrier.

“You. You did this. You set this up.” He’s growling again. His hair is disheveled, out of place, it’s a very different look. It reminds Reddington of a feral dog.

“No. I did nothing. You’re the one that slaughtered six innocent people in a quest to kill me.” Ressler deflates at that. He averts his eyes, refusing to meet the criminals metered gaze. Reddington’s voice is a dangerous kind of calm that makes Ressler want to vomit.

“I have a proposition for you.” Ressler quickly responds by spitting in Reddington’s face. He pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket, carefully wiping his face. Not even bothering to mask his disgust at the man’s actions. He throws the small fabric piece at the newly minted criminal.

“I wouldn’t be so fast to dismiss me, Donald.” His tone is saturated with subdued anger. “If you go to trial, oh hell if you even make it to trial. If you survive it, you’ll be marked in prison and my colleagues will most likely have you killed within the first year. Maybe you’ll be slaughtered by one of the many people you worked to put away.”

Ressler shakes lightly as if cold.

“So, where was I?” He laughs darkly.

“Ahh yes. I have a proposition for you agent. My bad, sorry ex-agent. My bad, it just slips.” 

He pulls out the second key and leans over. “If you move wrong, I will put you down, don’t worry.”

Ressler doesn’t move much except to offer out his wrists.

“What’s the proposition?” His voice is weary, cracked like he needs water, but most importantly.

Defeated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the short chapters. Hope you like it. Comments appreciated.


	3. Coming To Terms

He orders them to burn the vehicle. “Bright as you can.” He waves his arms in the air, in a manner not dissimilar to the way a coryphée would. “Higher and brighter.” He knows he’s beaten the man, and his tone is jovial. Ressler’s anger subsides into a weary regret. He’s only human and like any other somewhat normal person, he’s exhausted after the preceding’s. He falls asleep on the spiderweb cracked passenger window.

The clouds go dark and the rain starts to pour. Reddington pays no mind, in fact he quite enjoys the cold robust rain. He whistles a nameless toon as he drives. The whistling is enough to jostle Ressler from his sleep. He lashes out aimlessly in the direction of the dashboard. Reddington chuckles lightly, Ressler doesn’t seem to care much. He turns back over, ducking quickly out of his seatbelt.

Reddington clicks his tongue. “That’s dangerous Donald.” The comment earns him a bird in his direction. Reddington shakes his head in amusement. “What if I were to just...” He trails of and Ressler’s eyes flash fear, Reddington doesn’t see it, or ignores it. He jerks the wheel and flies into the left lane, dodging oncoming traffic. Nearly crashing the car. Ressler bows back into his seatbelt, nearly having a panic attack. His breathing hitches and he’s huffing so much he’s not far off from vomiting.

“Could get into a crash. Where would you be then?” His eyes are glued to the road now. Ressler can’t quite answer, he’s still fighting his unsettled stomach. “Why did agent Ressler cross the road? Nope not right.” Ressler can’t hold it back anymore and he quickly rolls down the window and blows chunks. Reddington pulls off on the side of the road and gets out, walking to the passenger side. Ressler vomits again before stumbling over and grabbing the older man by the lapels.

“Why in fucking hell would you do something so stupid? So reckless?” Reddington turns his nose up and pushes him off slightly. “I could stop and ask you the same thing.” The calm demeaner pisses Ressler off so much that he throws a punch, catching Reddington square in the jaw. Suddenly Reddington’s not so cavalier anymore. He’s pulling Ressler up by the collar, a gun to his throat.

“I could have left you to rot. Do you not understand that?” He lets him go but doesn’t return the gun his waistband. “Get in the car, before I decide you’re more trouble than your worth and shoot you in the stomach and leave you in the dirt to bleed out.”

> **Why I haven’t already is beyond me.**

* * *

They drive in silence for the remainder. When Reddington finally stops the car, it’s in front of a secluded lake house.

Of course, Ressler thinks about running and does a cost benefit analysis of whether he could survive getting shot and maybe crawl away. He concludes that he can’t and just follows the man into the building.

“I believe that you are a very skilled operative. I do, and that’s the only reason I’ve risked a fair amount to capture you.” Suddenly he has a drink in his hand, offering one up for Ressler as well, he continues. “I believe that a lucrative arrangement could be agreed upon. If Ressler wasn’t so afraid of being shot, he’d roll his eyes.

“Recently, I lost a valuable asset of mine. I trust that you’d be a good fit to replace her.” Ressler’s eyebrow arches. “Oh, you believe. Why don’t you just shoot me now, get it over with now.” Reddington’s eyebrow raises with indifference and his tongue skirts around the roof of his mouth. He leans over, still seated and grabs the gun on the table. He points it at Ressler. Ressler glares at him, as if challenging. He doesn’t quite know what he expected when Reddington shoots him in the leg.

He shrieks and hits the ground like a rock. He hisses and clutches at it but he’s lightheaded and his hand keeps slipping. Reddington sets the gun on the table and knocks back the rest of his drink, before kneeling next to Ressler. Lowering his voice, he says. “If you want me to kill you. Just ask.” Ressler suddenly fully grasps that the man is completely serious. He also realizes that as cavalier and reckless as he was before, he desperately wants to live.

“Hmm, I thought so.” He loosens his tie before taking it off completely. He straightens the leg and wraps the tie around it before cinching it and tying it. He drags Ressler up by his arms and hoists him onto the large red couch against the wall. He thinks about how fortunate it is that the couch is red, before completely blacking out.

* * *


	4. New Beginnings (Don't B Negative)

Ressler wakes up in a bed, in a completely different part of the house, seemingly. He moves his arm slightly to find an IV poking out of his vein. He briefly wonders if Reddington carried him and stuck him. The thought is forgotten when Reddington opens the door carrying a tray. Ressler’s stomach betrays him by making a loud noise. Reddington shakes his head. “Not food, I’m afraid.” Ressler lies back on the bed, before trying to sit up against the headboard. He doesn’t like Reddington having leverage over him, even if it is just standing up. His breathing gets louder and shallower and Reddington nearly slams the tray down before walking to his side.

“Don’t.” Ressler can’t even rebel as Reddington grasps him by the torso and wrenches him up into a sitting position. His jagged broken breathing stilts somewhat. He’s silently grateful, but soon remembers that it was him who put him in this situation. 

“I’ve brought bandages so that your leg doesn’t get infected. I’ll be replacing them whenever it’s necessary. Before I do that though.” He positions himself at the end of the bed in a high-backed wooden chair. It was pulled from the corner but before then Ressler hadn’t noticed it. It was a small thing, but he cursed himself for not being observant enough.

“This arrangement...” He trails off; Ressler understands that Reddington is picking and choosing his words.

“An agreement that you’ll work for me. Be a contractor for jobs I need done. One’s that require a certain touch.” His tone would be more fitting to be talking about something like the Saturday picnic instead of whether he wants people to be killed.

“So, you want me to murder people?” Ressler remembers the people from the restaurant, tries to suppress the thought that he didn’t even think about them.

_Didn’t even care_.

Reddington chuckles cordially. “Well. You’ve proven at least six times you can. It wouldn’t just be that though, there would be more. Of course.” Reddington unpacks the tray and he can see what’s actually on it. Reddington wasn’t lying when he said it wasn’t food, although Ressler can’t quite admit to himself that he didn’t even think he was lying. It’s a package of gauze and medical supplies. He spots two bags of B negative blood. His brow furrows.

“You just have rare blood on hand?” Reddington doesn’t even look up from his preparation of the packets.

“In arm, more like. I just had the supplies to bring it out. You didn’t know?” Ressler fumbles in his memory to try to remember if he ever knew. He gives up with a shrug. “Guess not.” Reddington pushes him down and props him up on a pillow. He fixes the IV before connecting the bag and opening the line. He then goes to work to change the bandages. He pulls back the layers of bandaging and Ressler winces. Reddington preemptively gets a water bottle and some kind of powder and mixes them together, handing it to him. Ressler warily glances at the water bottle.

“Advil and Tylenol. One each crushed. Non-addictive and it’ll set in faster that way.” Ressler wonders briefly whether the whole thing is a trap to kill him.

_He could’ve easily killed you yesterday._

**_Gain my trust and kill me?_ **

He figures he’ll chance it and gulps down a couple sips. “You’ll have to drink to whole thing.” Ressler nods knocking it back again. It’s bitter and vile. It tastes like he’s held a pill in his mouth too long and it’s started to dissolve. His face contorts into a scowl, but fortunately he’s finished it. Reddington produces another bottle and Ressler whines. “Regular water, don’t drink this one so fast.” Ressler lets out a breath akin to relief and takes to bottle. He sets it on the end table lightly. Reddington doesn’t speak as he finishes rebandaging the wound. Ressler doesn’t really want him to either. He needs to think.

Once the man finishes his work he leaves, leaving the door open. Leaving Ressler alone with his thoughts.

After about thirty minutes he gets restless. He’s made his decision.


	5. The Beginning Of The End (Of His Career.)

He finds a set of crutches lying on the floor next to the bed. He limps his way down an old winding staircase. There are renovation supplies laying on the floor everywhere. He makes his way down slowly so as not to trip on anything. In the light there’s much more to the rooms. There’s an oldness to everything and he slows down more to take in the wallpaper and crown molding, which had to have been original. He hops through the kitchen and a den, both of which smell thoroughly of some kind of glue, or paint. Something strong.

He walks back into the living room. ~~Where he was shot.~~ Raymond Reddington, notorious criminal, #1 on the united states most wanted list. Is delicately painting flowers on the wall? Ressler clears his throat loudly, Reddington doesn’t look up but greets him quietly.

“Hello again. Leg better?”

Ressler pointedly ignores the question and goes to sit on the couch. The side he hasn’t bled on. He doesn’t see any blood, putting his hand lightly on the couch, it’s wet but when he pulls his hand back, it’s not blood on his hand.

“Peroxide. Does wonders for blood.” Reddington supplies as if it’s an afterthought. Ressler doesn’t even pause to think about the implications of the statement.

“So. That ‘agreement’ of yours. What would it involve?”

He knows it’s too late for him to go back to the FBI, he might as well. He also knows that he’s beyond forgiving himself, he can’t do that. He killed those people, and he can’t even remember their names. Beyond retribution, and he finds himself feeling alive. More alive than he ever felt before Audrey died. He doesn’t like the thought.

Reddington’s face bears a small smug smile. “Well first the man that killed those all of those poor people is going to confess.”

Ressler looks like he could about to lunge at the man at any moment, crutches or no. “They already know who did it. Me! And you’re the son of the bitch that gave them the evidence.”

Reddington looks over his shoulder with amusement. He continues to paint the little flowers as he continues. “All the evidence against you was present with no chain of evidence. Conveniently dropped at the FBI’s doorstep. Though I admit that this was not the original plan. I can say that if it’s contested it won’t hold up very well in court and they’ll drop the case. Someone could be persuaded to take credit.”

Ressler shakes his head in disbelief. “I’ve been gone. They’ll think I ran.” Reddington finally sets down his paintbrush. “You’ve been on a stakeout.”

“What? An unsubstantiated claim? I’m screwed.” Reddington places the lid on a can of purple and puts it in the corner before grabbing a backpack. “When there was a chance that you would say yes, I had a colleague of mine. Striking. Could’ve been a double of you. Almost fooled me at first when I saw the video.”

He pulls out a small monitor. “Best way to forge a video is to set the date on the camera wrong, apparently.” He looks at the video and even he’s almost fooled, a man that looks just like Ressler sitting in a car. Reddington skips through it. “I had him on that corner for nearly twenty-four hours.”

“You are going to go into work like nothing happened, they are going to arrest you and you’re going to tell them that you got a tip on Raymond Reddington. You’ve been on a stakeout for a really long time, you went home crashed on your couch and were dead to the world until hmm let’s say, from the time you get into the building. One hour.” 

Ressler just gapes. “They’re going to check your story and one of my men is going to give them this tape from across the road.”

“But my leg?”

Reddington shrugs. “Just say it was me.”


	6. The Best Excuse

He does exactly what Reddington tells him to. He tells himself it’s just to keep himself out of jail. To stay alive.

_A lie._

He’s pushing himself to the edge. He did it the second he decided to pull that trigger.

**pop. pop.**

> **pop. pop.**

**pop. pop.**

As soon as he enters and swipes his card, an alarm blares and he’s forced to his knees. Several guns are being pointed at him and he’s forced to keep quiet, despite the pain throbbing through his leg. As they jolt him up off the floor, he sees that his leg has started bleeding again. His khaki colored pants are quickly being seeped with blood and he’s getting light-headed.

He fights the urge to pass out as they force him to walk along the floor. He vaguely sees the trail of blood they’re leaving out of the corner of his eyes. They end up in an unmarked interrogation room. His head hits the table and he feels weighed down. His eyelids betray him by closing and he’s blacked out. Again.

He wakes up sometime later to a doctor treating his leg. His pantleg has been cut up to about an inch above the wound on his thigh. The stitching and bandaging that Reddington gave him have been torn out and replaced with more concise and neat stitching. There’s a man on the other side of the table. He’s looking through a case file and Ressler can see his own reflection in the window. He looks like a man that’s been through hell, he fights the urge to chuckle at that. It won’t help his case.

“Agent Ressler. Six counts of first-degree murder. That’s impressive. Got an alibi?”

Ressler leans on the table and the medic glares at him. “Six what? Shit, I was on a stakeout.” He recounts the address of the fakeout to the man. “Got an anonymous tip that Raymond Reddington would be buying guns at that address. I sat on it for, a really fucking long time.”

The man’s taking notes now. “Did he show? Raymond Reddington?”

Ressler leans back, earning another glare from the physician. He ignores it.

“Yes, him and that bodyguard of his. Got shot for my troubles.”

“Let’s say this is true. Why didn’t you call it in?” He’s seen the tape he knows that the imposter drops his phone and coffee as soon as he runs the corner. So that’s what he says. This makes the agent angry. “How convenient. You know what I think? I think that you killed those people and then shot yourself.”

The physician stands up and says simply. “No.” The agent glares at the woman but she doesn’t even baulk. “What?”

She takes her gloves off. “I said no. The stippling of the wound and the point of entry says that it was made by someone at least five feet or more away. There is no way this man could’ve shot himself.”

The physician packs up her supplies and leaves. The unknown agent isn’t far behind. “We’ll check out your story.”

It’s a good while before they get back to him. When the still unnamed agent returned, he carried with him the original case file and a video tape. “It seems you weren’t lying. While we were running around trying to get this evidence seems someone came in and confessed. A man that just wanted to earn Reddington’s trust. By trying to kill you. Or get you killed. Either way he admits to planting your blood on a weapon you’d collected in a sting.” 

The man looks tired all of a sudden, like he’s aged ten years. “Very lucky.”

“I’m being cleared?” The man just nods, gesturing to the door. Ressler limps out of the room, grinning. He hears the man’s head thunk down on the table.

He gets to his desk and finds that it’s been heavily ransacked. He opens his drawers to find all of his stuff has been pushed around. There’s a small fortune cookie, he doesn’t quite recall in the forefront. He loves a good fortune cookie, even if he doesn’t believe the fortunes and he cracks it open. _These don’t expire right?_

He pops both sides of the cookie into his mouth, it’s sweet and very good he notes as he unrolls the fortune. It’s a lot of text for a fortune and he realizes that it’s not a fortune as he starts reading it.

> **Donald. I changed my mind.**

Ressler almost chokes. The first statement scares him. As he reads on though he calms a bit.

> **I don’t need your expertise within the FBI, I need someone outside. I would like you to tender your resignation.**

The thought of leaving the Bureau doesn’t bother him as much now as it would’ve a year ago, or hell even a month ago.

He pulls out a piece of FBI letterhead and a pen.

He addresses it to Harold Cooper and delivers it himself.

“What’s your reason for leaving the department?”

> ~~_ I’m going to work for Raymond Reddington. I’m not sure what I would do for him or why but…. _ ~~

“I feel like my reputation, even though I was cleared, isn’t going to return to normal. I’ve given my whole life nearly to the Bureau and I’m reconsidering.”

Director Cooper nods solemnly, Signing the slip. “Despite what happened I feel like we’ve lost a good agent. I know we have.” They both stand and he shakes the man’s hand.

He’s back at one of Reddington’s safe houses.

> _ News update on the developing story of the Park Square Restaurant Murders. We’ve received word that the agent was exonerated. The killer confessed, a forty-four-year-old man name Carl Lee, who said he was trying to gain favor with Mr. Reddington by framing the agent. The agent has since resigned citing issues with reputation and treatment by the FBI.  _

__


	7. A Valuable Asset (Code Speak)

It’s two years later and Donald Ressler is in a warehouse in France. He’s working for Raymond Reddington full time. He’s more honest to himself these days.

> _Best job I’ve ever had. No paperwork, no bureaucracy, no bullshit._

In the beginning he’d been suspicious of Raymond, he’d thought that the whole thing was a ploy. Raymond had told him after a couple months of working together that he’d admired the man, that he’d hated having to look over his shoulder, but he hadn’t decided to do the whole thing until an hour before walking into the police station.

Now here he is sitting in a suit that costs about as much as a month of pay at his old job, drinking alcohol that’s probably twice that, waiting to meet a man for some information. The man looks familiar, but Ressler doesn’t dwell much on it.

The man declines to sit so Ressler stands up. Downing his glass, he gestures for the man to produce whatever Donald has been waiting for. Instead he brings out a gun. Ressler doesn’t have time to react, slowed by alcohol and surprise. He doesn’t see the shot fired but it sends blood everywhere. The man’s face is nearly unrecognizable on the floor, the blood spreads quickly. Donald had thought he’d been desensitized but he’d been proved wrong. He wants nothing more now than to vomit.

“I’m a little late, Darling.” Reddington’s tone is tight. He must see the greenish tint of his face; he grabs a nearby wastebin. He pushes Ressler’s face lightly into the plastic container and Ressler lets it go.

“When I realized who it was that set the meeting, I came right away.” He takes the bin and gives it to Dembe. “Discard of that, would you?”

Ressler swipes his sleeve over his mouth, he has blood on the suit, it’s as good as ruined already. “Who?” He looks to the man on the floor again. “The agent that tried to bring you down. He was precluded, for trying ‘to ruin an honorable agents’ reputation without evidence’“

Ressler sits on a concrete partition, feeling the knotted flesh of the scar on his thigh through his pants. “What was his name?”

“Dominic Moran.” Reddington kicks the man onto his stomach.

Ressler can’t help but feel relief. He lets out a long breath.

“If he killed me you wouldn’t have to worry. Why bother?” He knows the answer, but he wants to hear the man say it.

> _What’s my value to you?_

He doesn’t realize he’s said it out loud. Reddington clicks the safety on his gun and returns it to the holster under his jacket, sitting next to Ressler. “Your value? What makes you think I would think of it that way? You’re a valuable asset and have proven yourself a worthy confidant.” Ressler just nods. It’s enough. Reddington continues though. “I’ve gone to great lengths to show you that I trust you.”

Ressler’s voice is strained. “I trust you too.”

> **_One hell of a way to say ‘I love you’_ **

****

**Author's Note:**

> https://open.spotify.com/user/catherineisablank/playlist/0SqGo9MGkW4IOABJeWTFWk


End file.
